


drown if you want (I'll see you at the bottom)

by kavsdick



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Simon and Brador Have Six Conversations at Once, Sings an Aria for Ludwig and Maria, The Church is a Hot Mess, The Old Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:00:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavsdick/pseuds/kavsdick
Summary: Simon, desperate as many of them were, knew his past sins could be put to use.(Brador and Simon have a chat, sort of.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from cochise because I'll never outgrow that song.  
> i wrote like, 90% of this on an airplane, so bear with me as i vaguely gesture to a not-so-Good Simon and his mess of a relationship with the beast-hide assassin.

“You're bound to fall off at some point, might as well get it over with.”

Simon hears Brador before he catches sight of the man, looking just as ragged as Simon feels. Brador’s usual bright-eyed restlessness has left him, replaced with the heavy acceptance that's plagued the underground echelons of the church of late. His heavy steps reach Simon, who sits on a thin ledge below the walkway’s iron fence, Old Yharnam in ashes beneath his feet. 

He tries not to reflect on the symbolism.

“Has Ludwig returned?” Simon ignores the barb, gazing over the remains of the city.

Brador snorts and leans on the fence, “Still nothing,” and he pauses for a moment, considering. “Laurence has retreated to his towers and his Gods.”

Furious, Simon whips his head up, “Does he have no drop of himself to turn to the destruction outside of his very own window?” and Brador laughs, tight and angry, “I fear he's– what did they feed us– inconsolable,” his voice pitching high and mocking of the Vicar’s attendants. 

Simon has never been overly close with the Vicar, would hardly call them more than colleagues, but he feels slighted nonetheless. The work he does for the Church, slumming and winding his way through the plauge-ridden trenches of the city, shutting his eyes to the horrors of the mortal world and breathing and Seeing the horrors above and below. That work is for Laurence, at its heart. For all the research and trials and ritual nonsense Simon would rather not think on. He sniffs out the illness like a deranged hound, all the while trying to ignore the implications of the moon hanging low and bloated in the sky.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Brador says, “I certainly don’t.”

Simon snorts and leans back against the bars, “I”m sure.” He feels the shift of Brador’s legs, one after the other, coming to stand right behind him, and looks up. 

“What are you doing out here, Simon?” Brador asks, leaning further over him. Simon can’t place his tone– wistful, maybe – and resists the urge to laugh in Brador’s face. Gods, he has no idea what he’s doing anymore. Do any of them, really? He chooses instead to reach up and tug on the end of Brador’s beard, dragging him forward until the fence presses its sharp points into Brador’s chest.

“What are  _ you _ doing out here, heathen?” and Brador grins his slick, filthy grin and drags his tongue along his front teeth. “As if your blasphemy doesn’t make mine look childish,” he reaches a hand over and grips Simon’s chin, “as if murder were so deplorable as to supersede this,” and he pulls Simon’s face to look below once more.

The curls of smoke rise from the everburn of the Old city, trailing higher and into the dark sky above. Buildings no longer retain shape or function, carved out by the great swathes of fire the Church had unleashed through the lower streets. The smell cannot reach them this high, and isn’t that something, then. To be so far above his own actions that he cannot fathom their effects. Cannot seek retribution or forgiveness for things he pretends to have no control over.

But Brador knows. And Simon cannot pretend here.

Upon his word had those streets burned. His insight, knowledge–  _ brilliant _ , Laurence had called him once,  _ like a true prophet _ – used for the ceaseless slaughter. The Harrowed were few, and fewer yet to be, but Simon knew how to survive. How to See what was not visible, how to see what simply was not true. His duty lie with the Church, and the Church’s duty, with Laurence. His eldritch experiments, made possible with a false plague and the very real dead. Bodies, harvested and gutted, used as sacrifice and repentance, and thrown to the women of Hemwick to further desecrate. Unholiest of holies, may they serve thee well. 

Simon, desperate as many of them were, knew his past sins could be put to use. And so he sought out this Vicar and his ragged Church, told them of his Sight, of the Harrowed who skulked the city, always waiting, always Watching. And Laurence was enthralled, rapt with the fever of the Old Lords and eager to see Watchers under his own command. Simon learned of the texts and their Pthumerian ancestors, the hierarchies and the underbellies. He saw Laurence and his deft hands weave tales of monsters and men, defiled by sickness and disease that ran thick in the blood below the earth, and nearly saved by the graces of those Ones high above, vast within the cosmos.

Simon waited.

Simon watched.

As Ludwig, once a proud hunter, turned in on himself and in to the whims of the Vicar, drunk on blood and pride. He watched young Amelia, taken with stories of labyrinths and beasts, fall to the same echoes of madness. Watched her grace, Lady Maria, disappear on a cold night, raised high into the air and willed away on the wind. Watched Gehrman, though he had little sympathy for the man, shut away in a workshop of his own mind.

Simon waited.

Brador watched.

Simon knew, in a place he didn't like to acknowledge, that Brador was deeply interested in him. Tasked with ensuring the success of the assassinations, Simon followed Brador into the depths of the city and Watched the spikes of heat through Brador’s blood as he tracked and trailed. Simon felt, deep in the marrow of his bones, the bloodlust that consumed Brador as he slaughtered and skinned his quarry, trophies to return to their Vicar. And Simon melted back into the Unseen, feeling Brador's mind reaching out to him the whole way.

Simon waited.

“You act as if I had forgotten,” Simon says, hand coming up to cover Brador's. He moves it from his chin to his cheek, pressing into the rough palm. “You know what I know.”

Simon feels Brador tilt forward over the fence, tastes his words as Brador turns his head, “Come back, Simon,” the hand slides into his hair, “where you belong.”

Simon feels sudden emptiness where the hand was, opens his eyes to see Brador stepping back and away, patient.

Simon stands.

Brador watches.


End file.
